


Sherlolly Shorts

by AsteraceaeBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: One Shot, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4944049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/pseuds/AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of little Sherlolly ficlets I have posted on Tumblr.  I figured they needed a home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Molly. Need you. Experiment.”

“Oh?” Molly asked, barely glancing up from her work. She was currently trying to find the cause of a blood infection from her latest autopsy, rotating the dial of the microscope with one gloved hand while the other bare hand jotted down notes on a pad. “What did you need? Parts? The lab? Did you want access to the cremator again, because you’re going to need to give that a little while before Sanders calms down about the mess you made last time.”

“No, no, none of that,” Sherlock said. “It’s quite a simple one. Just a social physiological experiment with neurochemical overtones. Primarily involving the epidermis.”

Molly stopped what she was doing, scooting away from the microscope and spinning her chair to look at him. She narrowed her eyes, frowning.

“You want to kiss me,” she stated.

“Briefly. Yes.”

“Is this for a case, or…”

“Oh, most definitely a case. Need to figure out how quickly someone would succumb to chemical influence in order to make their awareness of their surroundings deficient.”

“Ah,” Molly said, considering the situation.

It would be the first time they’d ever kissed and, while she’d managed to get over the infatuation phase of her acquaintance with Sherlock, she wasn’t sure helping him to solve a case was the way she wanted their first kiss to happen. It wasn’t the stuff of dreams.

On the other hand, it was just a kiss, and possibly the only time she would ever have the opportunity.

She popped up from her chair, pulling the glove off of her left hand and walking the five feet to Sherlock. She stood on tiptoe, placing a steadying hand on his chest as she leaned up and momentarily pressed her lips to his. When she pulled back and put herself flat on the ground, she peered up at him.

“Well?” she asked.

“Hm.” He frowned slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging sideways as he thought. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Molly said, surprising herself with the disappointed squeak in her voice.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Sorry,” he told her. He glanced away, his brow dropping as he processed his next step. “Perhaps I’m not the ideal test subject. I don’t possess the same reactions as most people. Hm. Thank you, Molly, continue with your day.”

He waved a dismissive hand at her and left the lab with a swish of his coat.

“Well,” she muttered. “You’re welcome.”

And I suppose that’s that, she thought to herself, tucking away the disenchanted feeling of having had no affect whatsoever on Sherlock’s libido.

“Not as if it was a proper kiss anyway,” she reasoned quietly as she sat down at the scope again. “Completely lacking the right mood…nothing romantic about snogging next to infectious cultures…”

That was when it dawned on her that Sherlock had made a colossal mistake in his investigative technique.

It took Molly all day to gather the courage to travel to Baker Street, arriving just after the sun had gone down. She found the door to 221B cracked open and she knocked out of courtesy before pushing it open. Sherlock was standing on a chair, rapidly pulling books off the top shelf, flipping through the pages, and then putting them back.

“Can’t find the bloody notes,” he mumbled, to himself or to Molly, she wasn’t sure.

“I’ve been thinking about your experiment,” she said, deciding to jump right in.

“Page two seventy four, but which book was it?” he rambled on, not even acknowledging that she was present.

“And I think your methods were flawed.”

That got his attention. Slowly, Sherlock replaced the book in his hand and turned to look at her with a peeved expression.

“Which methods?” he demanded.

“The, uh, the kissing…methods,” Molly explained.

Hopping down from the chair, he put his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown and sauntered over to her.

“Oh?” he said. “Explain.”

“You can’t just…walk up to someone at work in the middle of the day and announce you want to test something like that and expect realistic results. The results will be skewed,” she said seriously. “If the objective is to determine actual neurochemical impediment of thought process due to a physiological encounter, then it has to perfectly replicate the original scenario.”

To her mild surprise, Sherlock actually looked impressed with her reasoning.

“Oh, I see,” he said.

“So…what was the scenario?”

“Third date. Walking in the park. Man and woman say they were so caught up in the moment that they didn’t notice the murder happening yards from them. Very difficult to believe.”

Molly took in the information, nodded, and stepped forward. She grabbed the lapels of his dressing gown and pulled him to her, pressing her mouth to his sensually, making sure that her body was flush with his as well. She knew she’d succeeded when she heard the surprised gasp from him, his hands immediately grabbing her waist as she ran her tongue along his bottom lip. The second his mouth opened to hers, she wound her arms around his neck and let her fingers play with the curls of his hair. Sherlock let out a carnal grunt, holding her with an almost bruising force.

A few minutes later, Molly pulled away, breathing heavily as she stepped out of his arms. He looked, for lack of a better word, shell-shocked.

“So,” she huffed. “I’d say that’s a success.”

“H-how can you tell?” he asked, practically panting.

“I asked Mrs. Hudson to hover outside and wander in at some point to gather your laundry,” Molly told him with a smirk. “Which she did. Which you clearly didn’t notice at all.”

Sherlock cocked his head, his eyes flicking back and forth between hers.

“But she’s gone now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

And with that, he reached for her again, snogging her senseless.


	2. Fright Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly invites Sherlock to watch scary movies

“Molly, are you even going to look at the television again?  Or are you just going to hide back there for the rest of the film?”

“I can see…sort of,” Molly responded from behind Sherlock’s shoulder.  

She was currently wedged between his arm and the cushions of her sofa, one eye barely open to witness the horror unfolding on the screen.  It was the perfect place to watch the horror flick without actually watching it.  She felt Sherlock sigh.

“This was your idea,” he muttered.  "You work with corpses all day, how is this even remotely frightening to you?“

"Mine don’t reanimate and attack the living,” she said, her voice muffled as she spoke into the fabric of his shirt.  

Her favorite shirt:  light grey, perfectly reflecting the color of his eyes.  Didn’t hurt one bit that he smelled magnificent either.  She felt him shift slightly, uncrossing his arms.

“Would it help if…”

He trailed off, lifting his arm in invitation.  She didn’t need to be asked twice, quickly ducking under his arm and settling firmly against his side.  It was much easier to bury her face in the crook of his neck this way when the terrifying parts came on.  And if she happened to notice his pulse jump while she was in close proximity to his skin, well, so much the better.  His arm wrapped around her, keeping her close.

“I thought you said you liked horror films,” he teased, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

“I do,” she confirmed.  "Don’t you?“

"I’m starting to see the appeal…”


	3. White Shoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RATED M for garden party smut

It started with a pair of shoes.  White shoes, with heels that could pierce a lung if properly handled, and straps that accentuated her calves in ways he hadn’t thought possible.  He’d discovered them in the back of her closet when he’d been burrowed in the safety and quiet of her bedroom.  He hadn’t been snooping.  Just…exploring, for lack of anything better to do.  The tedium of hiding out had been unbearable until he decided to dissect every little item and clue left for him in the confines of her bedroom. 

More pieces fitting together regarding what he knew about her.

And those shoes… they told him quite a lot.  He’d heard a name for shoes such as those before.  It took some digging in his memory, but when he stumbled upon the answer he was nearly knocked over by it.  “Fuck-me-shoes.”

And she owned a pair.

Who had she bought them for?  Someone in her past?  Someone who had slipped a ring on her finger without ever knowing she would one day hand it back?  Or were they purchased with a hope that had never seen the light of day?

The curiosity ticked in his mind like a clock until the moment he walked out her front door, pushing it aside when other events took priority.  In fact, that little pair of four-and-a-half’s was entirely forgotten for months before he was blindsided with their sudden reappearance.

It was a garden party his mother was throwing.  Something to do with the Watsons’ baby and a Christening, he never could understand what the fuss was.  It was ridiculous tradition, utterly tedious…until she had walked into the room in a white skirt and pale pink blouse and  _those_  shoes.  She’d looked right at him and smiled.

Something inside him curled and flared and set fire under his skin.

It took twenty minutes before he seized his opportunity, pulling her by the hand to the upstairs bath, ignoring her yelp of surprise when he crushed her lips beneath his own and selfishly memorized the sounds of pleasure from her that quickly followed.  The murmur of conversation drifting up from the garden below faded away under their pants and gasps as he pushed her against the cold tile of the bath, spinning her and rucking her skirt up over her perfect arse.  His mind took the time to notice that those heels put her at exactly the right height for him before coherent thought left him completely.  His fingers stopped when her pleading began and he happily obliged her pleas, removing everything below the waist as quickly as possible before returning to her and shagging her senseless against the wall.

Before separating, before being forced to return to the party in case they were missed, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

“Tonight.  Baker Street.  Don’t change a thing…”


	4. Always Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RATED T for mentions of sex

Molly’s thumb rubbed absently against the faintly rough paper of her novel, her skin tracing the same small, circular pattern at the top corner of the page as she absorbed the words.  Her protagonist was chasing her leads on a case, determined to get her man in the end.  Aside from a few glaring errors in post-mortem analysis, Molly was decidedly enthralled with the plot and could overlook the glamorization of her area of expertise. 

The huff from across the room finally drew her attention away from the text.  She’d been able to ignore the first few noises of discontent from one Sherlock Holmes, but the huff was particularly needy.  Glancing up from her cozy spot on his leather couch, she saw him folded into his chair, dressing gown drooping from his frame and grazing the floor.  He was staring at her, eyes narrowed, mouth practically in a pout.

“Are you still upset about last night” she asked calmly.

“Not upset, I was never upset,” he told her quickly.

“Good, because really, you have no reason to be.”

He sighed and looked away from her, his nose crinkling in consternation as he dropped his feet to the ground, legs bouncing irritably.  She dropped her book to her lap and gave him her full attention.

“Sherlock, it’s fine, I already told you,” she insisted.

“It most certainly is not fine,” he cried, shooting up from the chair and starting to pace the room.  “Statistically, based on our history, that shouldn’t have happened.  Time was sufficient, you weren’t neglected in any way, I think most of your women’s magazine would actually be quite impressed with the events of last night.  Something must have been wrong…”

“Sherlock,” Molly said firmly, interrupting his tirade and sitting up, planting her feet on the ground. 

When he glanced at her, she motioned to the spot next to her on the sofa, indicating that he should join her.  His lip curled back momentarily, but he relented, dramatically crossing the room and sweeping his dressing gown out of the way before collapsing onto the sofa.  Arms crossed firmly over his chest, he shifted until his head was comfortably in her lap, staring right past her and to the ceiling.  Molly bit her lip to suppress a smile and she dipped her fingers into his soft hair, stroking his scalp soothingly.

“It’s perfectly normal,” she began, placing a finger over his lips when he opened his mouth to argue.  “Shush.  It is.  Not every time is going to be earth shattering, though we’ve been pretty close so far.”  She shrugged, the smile finally emerging on her lips when she thought of the night before.  “You were perfect…it’s nothing to do with you.  Sometimes it just… doesn’t happen.”

“But if I’m implementing all of the same methods, how is it that the results are variable?” he asked, his hands waving in the air to emphasize the seeming chaos of his observations.

“I don’t know,” Molly said, trying to pacify his insatiable curiosity and need for answers.   She looked down at him and caught his eye.  “But I can tell you this…it’s always good.”

She grinned at him, feeling her cheeks warm with the memories of how very good it always was.  The corner of his lip tugged up.

“Even if you don’t…?”

“Even if I don’t,” she said quietly, leaning down to place a kiss on the pout that was slowly disappearing. 

Sherlock’s hand slid up around the back of her neck, holding her close to him.

“I never want you to find me…lacking,” he murmured against her lips.

“Far from it,” she assured him.

“Would you be opposed to trying some new methods?  You know, for thoroughness.”

“Mm-m,” she hummed, shaking her head, and in an instant he was off the sofa, scooping her up in his arms.  She yelped, swatting at his shoulder as he carried her to the bedroom.  “I wasn’t done with that chapter!”

“Give me one hour and I will give you the rest of the day with your novel,” Sherlock said, dropping his lips to her neck and sending a convulsion of pleasure down her back.

“You drive a hard bargain, Sherlock Holmes…”


	5. The Hat

Sherlock had known Molly was meticulous, but it wasn’t until he’d officially asked her to move into Baker Street with him that he realized exactly how detail oriented the woman was.  She was perfectly careful to leave his things alone while she found the right nook for every item of her own.  His help had been staunchly refused and he did not blame her.  His organizational skills were nil and he would have been bored in minutes. Molly had disappeared into the bedroom some two hours before and all Sherlock had heard from the room were boxes scraping along the wood floor and cupboards opening and closing.  

It worried him slightly that she’d put a distance between them.  So wrapped up in cases as he always was, he’d missed the headline of the gossip news the morning before.  A lucky photographer had managed to snap a picture of them outside of Bart’s, his arm around her waist as he leaned down to place a kiss atop her head, and ran it with the headline, “New Mystery Woman in Hatman’s Life??”  The pill in all of it had been a side comment - “Ex-Baker Street Babe Says:  He’s a Lot to Handle, I Hope She Can Manage Him!” - and a small picture of Janine.  

Molly had dismissed it and gone about her day.  Unnaturally quiet.  Far too agreeable to anything he said.

He looked up from his microscope when he heard a drawer slam shut, followed by a muffled swear and then laughter.

“Everything fine?” he called out.

“Yes, fine,” came the quick reply.

It wasn’t until some ten minutes later that he sensed her presence in the kitchen.  He looked up and had to stop his jaw from dropping open completely.  Leaning against the wall as though it were the most natural thing in the world, Molly stood with his deerstalker pulled snugly onto her head, her plaited hair over one shoulder…and nothing else. 

With his mouth gone dry and unsure of where to look, Sherlock attempted to speak.

“I…thought…I -”

“Found it shoved away at the bottom of your wardrobe,” she said coolly.  "Though it might be time to give it a fresh look.“

With that, she turned and sauntered from the kitchen, pausing in the hall to turn back and look at him.

"Might even let you wear it…if you behave.”

He practically knocked the chair over scrambling to follow.


	6. The Circle of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For MizJoely! Happy Birthday!

Sherlock Holmes had, up until the moment of his son’s birth, been a somewhat reluctant father. Not in the sense that he would walk away from the responsibility, no, and he was frankly insulted that so many of his acquaintances seemed to be worried about that very thing. He was reluctant in that he’d never planned to have children. Didn’t know much about them. Was often compared to them. 

How could he raise a child when he still felt the world treated him as one?

But, as often occurs when two people engage in frequent and enjoyable copulation, things can happen. Bee finds flower. Gametes engage. Nature takes its course. 

And that was that - Sherlock was to be a father.

He was able to avoid a great deal of the fuss over little bitty booties and basinets and baby animals that seemed to become the common decor of the nursery (the converted 221C, for the time being). He didn’t know why everything had to have the print of baby animals, as though the fact that the items they adorned were actually designed for infants wasn’t enough of a clue. Go ahead and put it in neon - this tiny shoe with ducklings on it is for a baby! This brilliant blue rattle with a nappied elephant is, indeed, for a baby!

But Molly loved it, and she didn’t force him to, and they found a happy medium because at the end of the day he rubbed her feet and played calming tunes on the violin and held his hand against her belly while their child moved and they discussed cases.

The moment that little blend of Holmes and Hooper DNA that Molly had so brilliantly crafted was placed in his hands, a wave of pride and protectiveness washed over him such that he had never felt before. It was primal. It was exhilarating! 

It was how Sherlock Holmes had ended up opening the door of Molly’s hospital room to greet the group of anxious family and friends gathered outside with his swaddled son lifted out in his hands like a beacon and nearly shouting, “This is my son, my child! I created this!”

“…. _What_?!” 

The indignant cry echoed loudly from inside the room. For having just gone through eighteen hours of labour, Molly’s lung capacity was surprisingly excellent.

“… _We_  created this!”

“Try once again!”

“….I helped a bit!”


	7. Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally written for the lovely AmaliaKensington (artbyLexie) as a thank you for being a most wonderful mod for the Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge. Completely and happily dedicated to her!

The first time Molly ‘cooked’ for Sherlock, it was an apology. She had no intention of the plate of food being taken seriously, she only hoped it would earn her a confused look or a laugh. Either would be better than the wounded way he’d looked at her when she yelled at him, overwhelmed by three days of twelve hour shifts, a few incredibly emotionally trying post-mortems, and at her wits end when she’d walked into the lab and seen the giant mess he’d made. A mess that, no doubt, she would be left to clean up, if he kept to his pattern.

There was dirty glassware everywhere, half of it filled with the congealed remnants of agar mixtures. He hadn’t thrown away a single plastic wrapping from the pipette tip boxes. The pipettes were put away – out of order. She could only hope that the chemicals strewn over the counters were all actually from the path lab and not borrowed from another floor.

“Is – is all of this from you?” she asked, exhausted, not even sure why she was bothering when she already knew the answer.

“There’s a chance other people were in here. I doubt they had room to do any work of their own,” he told her, adding another set of test tubes into a beaker of boiling water. Once they had settled, he stood up and reached for his jacket. “Watch that for me, will you? I need to go check on a source, should be gone for about two hours - ”

“No.”

He stopped with his arms halfway into his jacket and stared at her.

“You heard me,” she said, feeling so incredibly tired and for some reason on the verge of tears. “I said no. I’ve been here for over twelve hours, I’m about to drop, I just want to go home, Sherlock.”

“I suppose I could make it closer to an hour - ”

“No!” Molly cried, her hands balling into fists. “Not an hour, not even ten minutes! I’m not watching your experiment for you, I’m not cleaning this up for you. You’re a grown man, and I am not your mother. I’m going into the locker room, hanging up my coat, and I am going home! And this mess better be gone by the time you leave or you can bloody well find another lab to start working in!”

The doors might have slammed on her way out. A few choice words for him may have left her mouth while she was still in earshot. It was also possible she had kicked a stool, or at least her sore toe indicated things had gone that way.

After a hot bath, a change into her most comfortable pyjamas, and a cup of tea that left steam on her glasses, her fury cleared and she realized that she had really yelled at Sherlock. And called him a few things. He really hadn’t even done anything like that in months, he’d been trying so hard to be more considerate, and then she’d let her sleep deprived temper get the better of her for one infraction.

She groaned and dropped her head to her knees.

This required an apology. Hopefully something that would make him smile.

The next day, after sleeping in far longer than she normally did, she got up, showered, and dressed in an outfit that put her in a more cheerful mood. It took a moment of digging around in her freezer, but she found what she was looking for, dumping the contents of the plastic bag into a steamer and adding a bit of salt, pepper, and lemon. Ten minutes later, she had the whole thing package into a ceramic bowl and lid and was on her way to the tube station.

Mrs. Hudson let her in, telling her that Sherlock was home and enjoying a late breakfast upstairs.

Swallowing her pride, Molly made her way up the stairs and stepped quietly into the kitchen of 221B. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, his eyes focused on the headlines of the day’s newspaper. It took him a moment to register her presence and her heart was thumping while she waited. Finally, his ice blue eyes flicked up and met hers.

Molly stepped forward and plunked the bowl on the table, removing the lid and pushing it towards him with her fingers. Sherlock frowned at her and looked down at the bowl.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Peas,” she offered, suddenly very self-conscious and worried that this wouldn’t work at all. It sounded rather stupid, now that she was actually doing it. “I’m offering you…peas. Sort of an apology, well, actually an apology for yesterday.”

He was silent as he looked back up at her.

She pointed towards the bowl.

“Peas offering,” she said lamely, shrugging. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Don’t make jokes, Molly,’” she imitated his deep voice.

He laughed. It startled her so much that she froze, unsure of what to do. He actually laughed. She let out a relieved breath and smiled.

“Sit, Molly, have some breakfast, I can’t possibly eat all of this,” Sherlock said, standing up to fetch the teapot from its warmer on the counter. “Mrs. Hudson brings me far too much, you’d think there were eight people living in this flat. Did you happen to hear about the art theft in Cologne? Their only clue are footprints that disappear in the middle of the room, but the catch is that there is no possible escape through the ceiling…”

Molly continued to smile as he went on about the case, accepting his offer of tea and breakfast.

A few weeks later, it was Sherlock standing dejectedly outside her flat, takeaway in hand.

He’d blown up earlier in the day due to a source lying to him, wasting days of investigation and lab test that had led nowhere. The moment he’d received the text from Lestrade, informing him of the source’s arrest and subsequent confession, he’d thrown the nearest item at the wall. It just so happened that that item was an expensive set of serological pipettes, estimated cost one hundred pounds. Not the dearest thing the lab contained, but she would have to explain the expense nonetheless.

She knew it had nothing to do with her and his anger had never been directed at her in any way, but his temper was not a pleasant thing to behold.

Which was probably why he handed her two paper bags filled with curries, all the sides, and expensive wine.

“It’s not homemade,” he told her, sounding very apologetic. “But I’m fairly certain there are peas in the vegetable korma.”

Molly’s lips quirked to the side as she tried not to grin outright.

“Offering accepted,” she said, inviting him in to share the meal.

They went back and forth like that for three months, bringing small meals with a theme whenever something went wrong and tempers were lost.

She brought him sheppard’s pie and chicken casserole that she was almost sure he only ate when she was around. He brought her crab salad and chole saag from the best delis and restaurants in London. She shared more meals with Sherlock Holmes in three months than she had ever been aware he indulged in while working.

Then there was a case that came too close to home. A man accused of kidnapping and murder several times over and Molly had wound up in the middle. The man hadn’t made it far with her, the NSY had been right on his heels, but it was enough to make everyone realize how very close things had come to disaster.

A day later, after she’d calmed down and stopped jumping at every noise, Sherlock sent her a text requesting her presence at Baker Street. She went somewhat reluctantly, not feeling up for socializing or fetching him samples or looking at experiments.

The moment she walked in the door, she realized none of that had been in his plans. There was a cheerful fire going in the fireplace and candles were scattered throughout the flat, giving it a golden warmth. Sherlock was in the kitchen, trying to fit a bottle of white wine into a large beaker filled with ice. The table was covered with a deep blue tablecloth and set with white china and silverware. Sliced bread, a tray of oysters on ice, a delicious looking salad, an impeccably gorgeous filet mignon roast, and a bowl of sautéed peas and fennel were set out between the two place settings.

Molly stared, her jaw dropped.

“What…Sherlock, what is this?” she stuttered.

He simply pointed to the bowl of peas and fennel.

“Homemade this time. All of it,” he explained to her, reaching for a box of matches and striking one to light the candles on the table.

“What?” she said, feeling light headed all of a sudden.

“I wasn’t sure there was a better way to apologize for what happened, this seemed to be working well so far.”

Molly gaped at him.

“What?”

Sherlock shook the match until it billowed smoke and set it in the sink before he finally stopped moving, his hands gripping the edges of the counter.

“It’s my fault,” he said quietly. “What happened to you. I should have protected your name when it came to the evidence that linked him to the crimes.”

“I - ”

“This isn’t enough to make it up to you. But I didn’t know where else to start.”

“Sherlock,” Molly said, finally able to get her feet to start moving and carry her towards him. “I’ve been the pathologist listed for dozens of criminal investigations. This was a fluke, it could have happened with anyone. You don’t owe me an apology.”

“I do, I owe you a thousand apologies,” Sherlock said emphatically, turning to face her, his hands landing on his hips. “For this, for everything I’ve ever done to you in the past that made you upset, and I don’t know why I thought a _bowl of peas_ would be enough, it’s not.”

“It’s enough,” Molly reassured him gently, reaching out to run her hand along his arm, coaxing his fingers out of a fist and interlacing them with hers. She glanced at the table. “You did all of this…for me. I…thank you.”

Sherlock stared at her, his eyes locked steadily with hers. His grip on her hand didn’t relent.

Molly only had time to gasp slightly as he suddenly moved forward, his free hand cradling her face as his lips descended on hers. Oh…oh my oh my oh my, what was he doing? When he tried to pull her closer, her eyes snapped open and she pressed a hand against his chest, forcing some space between them.

“Wha – what are…Sherlock, why?” she stammered.

“Trying to find another way to start apologizing,” he said, though it sounded more like a question. His head cocked to the side. “Not good?”

Molly shook her head.

“I don’t, I don’t want you to kiss me because you’re sorry,” she told him.

Sherlock nodded once, his mouth drawing into a thin line. He glanced away for a moment, thinking, before looking back at her.

“If I…kissed you because I wanted to? Because it made me…happy?” he ventured.

Molly smiled up at him, her fingers relaxing against the fabric of his shirt.

“That would be very good,” she told him.

“Excellent. It’s a much better ritual than peas, anyway,” he said, smiling down at her before pulling her close again, his mouth gently meeting hers.


End file.
